


let it kill you

by Notfye



Category: Alice by Heart - Sheik/Sater/Sater & Nelson
Genre: (okay there is in fact plot but the plot is like. death.), (please don't do anything in this fic in real life oh my god), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Unprotected Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24637582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notfye/pseuds/Notfye
Summary: “You’ll let me die with you?”Alfred, eyes blown wide and glassy from fever, nods.(In which no one wants to die a virgin).
Relationships: Alice Spencer/Alfred Hallam
Kudos: 8





	let it kill you

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from that Bukowski quote but uh, make it literal
> 
> Also I’m well aware people on death’s door probably can’t fuck just let me live shhhhhh
> 
> Also also thank you to fenrir for beta-ing and also saying Alfred was an incel name, that was much appreciated.

“You’ll let me die with you?” Alice asks. 

Alfred, eyes blown wide and glassy from fever, nods. 

“It’s now or never,” he says, sadly, like this is something he didn’t realize he’d miss out on until now. “I wish I had done something sooner.”

Time is fickle and fleeting. It is something they’ve both had to learn so, so quickly. This is the end, she knows that, but still she leans in. There is enough, still, for this. 

He pulls her closer so that their foreheads are touching and her eyelids fall closed. Neither of them moves for a beat, and his breath, warm and shallow, skitters across her lips. 

He kisses her, gently, chapped red lips coming to rest on her own. She brings a hand up to his jaw and cradles it like he’s something fragile. He is. They settle like that for a moment, in what is just a long kiss, moving like molasses through a glass. Something tastes like iron, and Alice refuses to acknowledge it. 

He pulls away and his eyes are half-lidded, but Alice can still see that they look wrong underneath his lashes. They’re too red and wet. She doesn’t want to look at him. 

Instead, she follows him with her lips and kisses him hungrily. All of this  _ want  _ she’s had inside of her for so long, it’s coming out, and this, she knows, is her only chance to try and sate it. 

He works down her neck and kisses her where her pulse leaps beneath her skin. It’s lovely in that way that clumsy, heartfelt acts of love are. 

Then, his breathing hitches and he turns away, faster than she’s seen him move in some time. As soon as he’s away from her he doubles over and starts coughing. It goes on for a long time. She rubs his back through most of it but knows that it doesn’t really make a difference. When he sits up again, her hand slips from his back; his fingers are speckled with red and his gown has not fared much better. 

He looks at her a moment, hunched and honest and looking, strangely, like she’s caught him doing something wrong. He moves back towards her neck. 

“Alfred—,“ she starts. It’s not the blood or the illness or anything but concern. He cuts her off anyway.

“Let me do this,” he says. “Please.” He looks like he might cry. It’s like he’s built it up in his head; like now that they are here, and she’s as doomed as him, he has to at least give her this. His lips are bloodied. 

“No,” she manages, and then stiffly runs a finger along his clavicle. “You don’t have to give me anything, Alfred.”  _ This is enough _ , she thinks, because what else is there? This. Him. Do and die. 

She mouths at his pulse point and his skin is hot beneath her lips. She doesn’t want to think about it. He gives up little gasps of air and she can almost smile, hearing the noises he makes. 

Her lips move lower, until his gown foils her. It’s for the best, really: his breath is catching again and Alice is afraid of making him have another fit. 

Instead, she asks, “Are you ready?” 

After a beat, he says, “Yeah, I think so,” and tucks the fabric of his gown around his hips. 

He’s half-hard, and with a few strokes of his own hand, he’s the rest of the way there. It’s so clearly practiced, so known, that Alice thinks, unbidden, of the nights before the bombs, when he must have used his own hand in the same way. The dampness beneath his blanket, the soft cry he’d give, the way his body would go slack at the end. It all runs through her in a matter of seconds and makes her stomach churn with heat. 

She kneels above his lap and he looks up at her, even here so wonderstruck. Here, so loving, so awed, so himself, that she surges with anger: How dare anyone, anything try to take him away from her. 

When she takes him he shudders and to her, it  _ hurts.  _ It hurts but it’s Alfred. So she gasps at the first shock of pain and they move slower. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and buries her head in the crook next to his. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

She steadies her breath. “Yeah,” her voice comes out raw. She sinks on him lower, slowly, and he rubs her shoulder gently, like it’s an apology. 

Maybe, in another life, he’d have laid her out on the mattress and pulled her apart bit by bit. Another, they’d work each other to the brink, all flushed skin and bitten lips, and she’d learn exactly how different his hands are from her own. In this one, they don’t have the time for anything but this. 

Her movements are gentle, measured. Neither of them can really take it, but they are going to try anyway. The pain eases though she still feels like there’s too much of him in her. She never thought it’d hurt with him. Not really, even though her mother had warned her that it would. With some other boy, yes, but not with Alfred. 

He trembles beneath her, exertion and arousal both, it seems. He’s sweating, but whether it’s from the fever or the effort is anyone’s guess. The plain of his cheekbones is soft pink and the rest of him is terribly, sickly pale. 

“We can stop,” Alice says. “We can—“

“No,” he says fiercely, gasping. “We’ve started. We have to finish.” He catches her lips again, rallying slightly. One hand of his goes to her back and curls around it. His fingers are light as a ghost’s where he holds her, and she can’t tell if it’s because that’s just the way he is, or if he can’t muster anything more. 

The too-fullness fades into something different, like elastic slowly being pulled taut. She controls the pace and uses his shoulders for balance; they both seem to find their rhythm. Alfred moans lowly, and it’s such a wonderful, precious sound that it makes something low and hot in her clench. 

It doesn’t last much longer after that. He groans into her ear, more often as he gets closer. Eventually he lets out a low sigh, and Alice knows it’s over. She hasn’t finished, and didn’t really expect to; her mother warned her of that, too. But still. She thought Alfred would be different; knows he’d be, if they had the proper chance. 

They lie down. Alfred looks wrecked, sweaty and teary and red. Alice gathers him into her arms and tugs the too-thin blanket around them. She can feel his ribs through the cotton of his gown, the labored beat of his heart. Soon, too soon, the nurse will come in and see the blood and bruises on her neck that tell the tale, and Alice doesn’t even know what she’ll do. 

She buries herself in the top of Alfred’s head and pretends the world beyond doesn’t exist. She sighs. 

“Don’t say it,” he says, brokenly. 

She doesn’t say it. 

**Author's Note:**

> come bother me on tumblr at Notfye, I talk about abh an almost annoying amount


End file.
